Mosaic
by tommyhanson
Summary: Everyone's life consists of a bunch of little moments all glued together. Here are some of Neal's.
1. If Only

_A/N - First, to anyone reading my Chuck/White Collar Crossover "CIAgent", I am terribly sorry that I'm being so slow with the updates. My deepest apologies. I was attacked by these rabid plot bunnies, while the ones assigned to that story are being suspiciously silent. Now, as for this story… I have no idea how it came about. Really. It was suddenly in my head, and I just thought 'Hmm… Eh, why not post it?' So, ta-da! A little Neal/Kate ficlet. I may add some other ficlets later, I suppose. Oh, and please read and review. Thanks!_

Disclaimer: Not mine. But I'll be 21 in a few months, and Matt Bomer would make an _excellent_ gift…

**If Only**

Neal had known Kate for three days when he asked her to marry him.

It was their first official date. They'd had dinner in the Eiffel Tower, then snuck into a closed-off part of the Louvre to have their own private tour. Kate looked at the paintings like she had never seen such beauty.

Neal looked at Kate the same way.

He listened as she talked about brushstrokes and colors, compared Renaissance pieces to more modern works, and added his own commentary when necessary. But the whole time, he was cataloguing the lines of her throat, the curve of her lips, the blue of her eyes, and realizing with the utmost certainty of someone in love that nothing could ever compare to this girl.

When the museum guards found them, they made a run for it, clinging to each others hands as they fled from the museum, and out into the streets. They ducked down a deserted side street, and pressed themselves against a wall, breathless and laughing.

He glanced over at her, and blurted out the question before his brain realized what his heart had gone and done.

Kate looked over at him, eyes still laughing and a smile on her lips and said "We've only known each other three days."

"So?"

Something shifted, and then she was looking at him like she did the paintings, brushing her hand gently down his cheek, and tilting her head just slightly, like she was searching for something in his eyes.

Angry shouts in French were followed by the sound of running down the direction in which they'd come.

They took off again, hand-in-hand, and Kate laughed again, gripping his a bit tighter. "If you still want to marry me in three years as much as you do in three days, ask me then, when nobody's trying to arrest us!"

Three year later, to the day, Neal bought a diamond ring, and headed to Mozzie's apartment.

"I need you to do me a favor."

Mozzie eyed him warily. "A favor?"

"Well, technically two."

Moz crossed his arms. "I'm listening."

"I need you to be my best man. And to hold on to this." He handed him the ring.

He took it, looking at it curiously, before pocketing it. "Despite my very deep loathing of the monkey suit and it's itchiness, yes to the first. As for the second, why can't you hold onto it?"

Neal smiled, and Mozzie tried to ignore the feeling that something was wrong. That was the smile Neal used to distract a mark while he lifted their wallet/watch/item-of-value, and using it on Mozzie usually meant that the kid was about to do something stupid and he didn't want Moz to stop him.

"What are you going to do, Neal?"

Neal wouldn't look him in the eyes as he headed for the door. "There's something else I've got to take care of before I can ask Kate to marry me."

Mozzie wouldn't forgive himself for letting the kid walk out that door.

Two weeks later Neal was arrested.

Nearly five years later Neal knelt on a burning tarmac, a diamond ring biting into his clenched fist hard enough to bleed, and wondered where he'd be if only she'd said 'yes'.


	2. Cake

_**A/N - Whoah, another one, in like, really really quick. Hm. Don't see that happening again, like, ever, but cool. Anywhoo… Had this in my head for a while now. Finally found a minute to type it up. Yay. Please read and review. If you do I will give you a slice of imaginary birthday cake. ;)**_

**Disclaimer:**** Still not mine. Because life's not fair.**

**Cake**

The first time Neal stole something, he was five years old.

Peter's asked him before, not really expecting an answer, how he ended up where he is. A forger. A con artist. A thief.

A criminal.

Neal thinks about telling him, sometimes. Imagines what he'd look like if he did tell him. Wonders what Peter would think of him if he told him the truth.

If he told him about how his latest set of foster parents had decided to move for reasons unknown to the five year-old. About how they'd left behind a broken coffee table, the rusty front bumper of a Chevy in the front yard, eight packets of ketchup, half a box of stale cereal, and him.

He wonders what Peter would think if he told him that he stayed in that house by himself, with no power for five days before the food ran out (even though he'd been rationing it), and nobody noticed.

He wonders what Peter would think if he told him that he'd waited another two days, and still no one came, no one noticed that there was a little boy there, all alone, afraid and hungry.

He wonders what Peter would think if he told him that he waited until the neighbors had gone out before he snuck into their house through their dog-door, just looking for something to eat, when he found a beautiful round cake, frosted in swirls of blues and greens, with the words "Happy Birthday Timmy" in curvy iced words across it.

He wonders what Peter would think if he told him how he'd carefully carried it home, and sat on the floor in the dark, and licked every little bit of that frosting off, until his tongue was green and blue too, and how he'd never tasted anything so good, and he ate it so slow he wasn't really hungry again for six whole days.

He wonders what Peter would think if he told him that the first time he ever stole something, he did it was because he was five, and alone, and hungry, and he'd never had a birthday cake before.

He thinks about telling him.

Sometimes.

But Peter's not really expecting an answer, anyways.


	3. Dogs

**A/N: Okay, here's another one. One of these days I may even manage to write a fluffy one. Or, well, at least a slightly less depressing one. …Maybe.**

_**Disclaimer:**__ Not mine. _

**Dogs**

Neal sat in front of the Burke's couch, waiting for Peter, rubbing a very happy Satchmo's tummy. His tail thumped contentedly against the floor, and one leg kept kicking up which meant he was scratching _just the right spot_. Neal loved Satchmo. He was like the dog he'd always wanted, the kind he dreamed about when he was little, back when he still _dreamed_, before the nightmares moved in and wouldn't leave. When Neal was still very little a dog was near the top of his Dream-List.

But it still came after "a family," and "a home," and he could never seem to keep those.

One time though, just once, he thought his dreams had come true. He got sent to live with a new family, a young couple. The man wore ties and the woman smelled like honey and apples, and they lived in a house with a yard and a little white fence.

They smiled, and they laughed, and the only times they ever touched him was to ruffle his hair, or, once, to give him a hug when he scraped his knees. And they even got a dog, a little lab puppy that would run around like his tail was on fire, chasing tennis balls and tugging at Neal's shoe laces and jumping through the sprinkler. For the first time ever, Neal had a family, a home, and a dog.

Back when Neal still dreamed, he thought that just maybe he could keep all this.

He should have known better.

"Neal!"

Neal started, glancing up at Peter.

"Hey, come on, time to go. Where were you?"

Neal glanced down at the boneless heap of Happy-Puppy called Satchmo, and tried to forget the little cuddly puppy that for two whole months would curl up beside him in bed and drool and snore and make him believe that sometimes dreams did come true.

Neal put on a smile, and directed it at Peter. "Just thinking about the case." He stood up and brushed the blonde fur from his suit, ignoring Satchmo's indignant huff.

Neal tried to forget, because he hates to think what a fool he was, believing that good things just happen, that the universe would be so kind as to hand you what you wish for. But he learned.

He learned when two months later they kept the dog.

But they didn't keep him.


	4. Colorblind

_A/N: Okay, so I honestly intended this to be a happy fic, I swear. It's not as, erm, __**un**__happy as some of the others, but still, not exactly the fluff I meant to write. (I'll get to that eventually, but I happen to know that the next one will __**not**__ be it.) Anyways, a part of me really likes this one, and a part of me really doesn't because I'm not entirely certain it's coherent to anyone but me, so let me know what you think. Ta._

Disclaimer: .enim toN

**Colorblind**

Neal's first impression of Peter was that he was colorblind.

That was the only way to explain the tie.

Neal's always had an almost morbid fascination with the idea of being colorblind. He wonders, sometimes, what it must be like, but he can't imagine it. His whole world is in color.

It's in the blues of Kate's eyes and the soft pink of her lips. The yellow of Van Gogh's sunflowers and the rich brown of hot chocolate. It's the green of the park and the Cheeto-orange of the couch in Mozzie's storage unit.

Sometimes the colors in Neal's world aren't always good.

Sometimes his world is in the delicate purple of bruises and the wet red of blood, but those are usually far enough away now that they can mean fizzy purple grape soda and a red cashmere scarf too, and not just _hurt_.

Eventually, Neal learns that Peter's not _actually_ colorblind. (As for the tie, apparently he just has really really awful taste in just about everything but coffee and wives.) Peter can _see_ color. Just not like Neal.

For Peter, stealing a Monet isn't joyous bright blue, and forging a Degas isn't proud forest green. They're black.

And for Peter, chasing Neal isn't exhilarating gold-flecked yellow, and catching him isn't a sad pale purple. It's white.

He considers, briefly, feeling sorry for Peter, for not living such beautiful colors, but then he sends him to prison and he changes his mind.

In prison, everything's gray, gray, gray, with specks of jumpsuit-orange.

Neal stops wondering what it's like to be colorblind.

_A/N- Okay, I had to mention. I had a good friend in high school who was colorblind. And I absolutely adored him if for no other reason than what he wanted to be when he grew up was a member of the bomb squad. He put up with four years of "pull the blue wire!" jokes, and we had to love him for it. ;)_


	5. The Van

_A/N: Okay, I went ahead and finished this early because the others have been very very short. (This one's short too, but not quite as much so.) It's another not-happy one. Btw, if anyone has any suggestions for future chapters (particularly some fluffy ideas) feel free to let me know. I can't promise to write them, but if the muses are kind, then maybe… Oh, and also, kudos to those of you who spot the Leverage reference. To those of you who don't, you have to go watch that show, like, __**now**__. _

Disclaimer: Nothing has changed in the last hour, so no, it's still not mine.

**The Van**

They're in the van. Again.

Neal hates the van.

It's cramped, and boring, and always smells of deviled ham and old socks, so Neal fidgets and sighs and fiddles with the equipment until Peter tells him in his Irritated Voice to "sit still".

He tries. Really.

But they've been on this stakeout for hours, and he's _bored_, and even if he _could_ convince Peter to let him leave the van for a little bit, there wasn't anywhere he'd want to go. They were parked in the shadier part of the city, where girls and guys with ill-fitting jeans and desperate eyes lined the streets outside of adult stores and smoky dives.

He sighed again.

"I never got it."

At Cruz's words, Neal perked up a bit at the prospect of a conversation.

"Got what?" he asked, trying to guess what it could be. Maybe it was a con she didn't get? The London Spank, or the Genevan Paso Doble? But no, unlikely, because where would she have heard of those? She'd been talking to Jones earlier, about a basketball game, maybe it was something to do with that. He hoped not, because he really didn't know anything about basketball. Maybe it was about the current case-

His musings were interrupted when she gestured to the screen displaying the street outside.

"How people could do that."

For a moment, he thought she _was_ in fact talking about their current case, wondering how someone could steal, break the law, but no. That wasn't it.

She continued, "How could someone do that? Sell themselves? It's never made sense to me."

Jones shifted so that he could look over at her. "The same reason as the people we go after. For the money."

"Yeah, but I don't get how it's worth it. A little bit of cash in exchange for your dignity, your self-respect, self-worth? How could they not be completely disgusted with themselves?"

Neal closed his eyes to try to keep from looking at the screen or at Lauren, but the darkness was worse and he opened them again in time to see a young woman get into a car with a stranger.

Lauren shook her head, watching, condemning. "I just don't know how anyone could do it."

Neal tried to keep his voice light, tried not to give anything away or sound too accusing when he told her "You'd be surprised what you'd be willing to do if you get hungry enough."

The van was quiet again after that, and Jones and Cruz spent the rest of the night very deliberately _not_ looking at him. Peter kept glancing his way though, kept trying to figure him out, trying to decide what he'd meant when he'd said that, what his motives were, if he was playing a game or running a con or letting slip a little bit of truth.

Neal sighed again, feeling increasingly claustrophobic as time stretches on.

He really hates the van.


	6. Restraint

_A/N: First off, thank you very very much to everyone who has read, reviewed, and favorited. I love you guys, and I'm sending each and every one of you an imaginary gift basket full of chocolate. ;) Now, secondly, this chapter is (__**finally!**__) a fluffy-esque chapter, which I want to give a big thanks to Kathryn Marie Black for, as she gave me an awesome awesome idea. She gets an extra-large imaginary gift basket. ;p Oh, and P.S., this is meant to take place in some undetermined past, a little while after Neal met Mozzie. (I have some thoughts on that, but I'm not sure I'm brave enough to go there.)_

Disclaimer: Not mine. …Still. Darn it.

**Restraint**

Mozzie would be the first one to admit that Neal had a lot of good qualities. (Well, first after Neal himself, of course.)

Neal was brilliant, loyal, kind, fun, and a host of other wonderful things. He was not, however, particularly restrained.

Sometimes, there was nothing wrong with that. When Neal would sing at the top of his lungs, his voice filling the apartment, or laugh loudly enough to light up all the dark spaces. Or when he'd dance around the kitchen like a fool, grin until his dimples were deep enough to reach China, or race around his room painting the walls in warm colors to watch the sunlight set it on fire.

But sometimes, Neal's lack of restraint had a tendency to get him into trouble. Like that time he stole that Russian mobster's toupee right off his head because he thought "it looked like the man was being mauled by a poodle". And sometimes Neal's lack of restraint got him injured. Like that time he got a concussion breaking into Buckingham palace because "they skipped all the best parts" on the guided tour. And sometimes Neal's lack of restraint made Mozzie's life a lot more difficult.

Like now.

Mozzie had learned, through trial and error (many, many errors) that it was best that he not let Neal go unsupervised for too long. Though when Neal had said that he was "just going to the zoo", he'd foolishly thought _'how much trouble can the kid get into at the zoo?'_.

Mozzie really should have known better by now.

He blinked a few times, just to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing before sighing. "No, Neal, you can't keep it."

Oh no. Now he was pouting.

"Come on Moz, why not?"

"Because you can't."

"But _why_?"

"Because I said so."

Neal snorted. He actually _snorted_.

"No, really, why not?"

"Because penguins do not make good pets!"

"But Moz-"

"No."

"But-"

"No."

"Can't I just-"

"_No._"

"_Please!_"

And now he was throwing out the big guns. The Aren't-I-Adorable-You-Have-To-Do-Whatever-I-Say-How-Can-You-Say-No-To-This-Face Puppy-Dog EyesÔ. Mozzie steeled himself. And then because that wasn't working he closed his own eyes.

"No. Take him back to the zoo. Now."

Neal sighed and hung his head. "Fine."

He slipped on a jacket and then picked up the awkward little tuxedo-adorned bird that was standing half-inside their open freezer.

He stepped out into the hallway, and before he could close the door Mozzie called a warning after him, just in case. Because he did know the kid, and to him, 'no' really meant 'find a loophole'.

"And I swear, Neal, if you come back with a stolen polar bear I'm locking you in your room for a month!"


	7. Apology

_A/N: Sorry my updates are so extremely… sporadic. On the upside, hey, at least I'm still updating! That's something, right? Oh, and btw, incase you can't tell, this takes place immediately following "Point Blank". I debated posting this as I personally have a million different ideas on how that particular, erm, __**situation**__ will play out, and I've addressed it before (in a different fic, "Backup") and may yet adress it again, but I figured, what the heck. They're my little non-cannon ficlets, and I can have a million if I want, right?_

Disclaimer: Not mine.

**Apology**

He'd apologized to Mozzie first. In the hospital, in those long hours of waiting, of silence only broken by the _beep-beep-beep _of the heart monitor and the whirring of the respirator, Neal had apologized, over and over again, in between desperate entreaties to "Please, wake up," until his voice was hoarse from it.

But Mozzie hadn't woken up.

He'd apologized to Diana next, in the car as she'd escorted him back to June's. She'd picked him up from the hospital with a terse "Let's go," and hadn't spoken to him since, hadn't even looked at him. They spent the first half of the car ride in tense silence, while Diana pretended he didn't exist, and he tried to figure out how to apologize. He finally did, ten minutes from June's.

Diana turned on the radio.

He'd apologized to Peter the next day, when he came to inform him that he was under house arrest. Peter had called him "Caffrey," and looked at him like he had the first time they met, like he was a criminal, a stranger. And while the first may hold true, Neal had liked to think they were friends, _partners_, had coveted the term like something precious when Peter gave it to him. It hurt, that he seemed to have stolen it back. "Peter, I'm-" But Peter hadn't wanted to listen, had _refused_ to listen, had left before Neal could get out the words.

Neal apologized to a closed door.

He apologized to Elizabeth last. When she'd dropped by unexpectedly, late in the afternoon, and he'd invited her in to sit, and she hadn't said a word, had just _stared_ at him, like she was searching for something, but Neal was too tired to try to figure out what. He was tired, and weary, and lost. Finally, he apologized, even though he knew it was for nothing.

He'd spent the last two days apologizing to deaf ears, not asking for benediction or forgiveness, but just for somebody to hear it.

He said "I'm sorry", but nobody was listening.

Elizabeth rose to leave, and he bent his head, unable to watch another person walk away from him. But her footsteps stopped, just behind him. He didn't dare to hope enough to lift his head.

One step, behind him, and she was close, closer to him than anyone had been since this had happened, since he made a mistake that he couldn't take back, and he couldn't regret if not for all the people he'd hurt.

"I know," she said, soft but sure. She leaned down and laid a kiss atop his head, brushing her fingers through his hair, then left.

The door clicked closed behind her, and he released the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and tried not to cry.


	8. Insomnia

Mosaic - 8/? - Insomnia

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_A/N: Yay! New chapter. Okay, I debated posting this, and then I debated whether or not to add it to my "Mosaic" series, and then I finally decided, eh, screw it. So, yeah. Here it is. This could take place either as it's own little not-related-to-any-other-chapters ficlet or within a Mosaic-world, or whatever. Personally, when I wrote it, I kinda pictured it as a pseudo-cannon piece following "Forging Bonds", but whatev. Anywhoo. Hope you like it._

Sometimes Mozzie suffers from insomnia.

No, that's not true. He doesn't _suffer_ from it, not really, because people sleep too much anyways, and who is he to argue if his body sometimes agrees? But occasionally he can't sleep. That's fine with him, actually, because it gives him time to do other things. Like if he's at Tuesday he can trim his Bonsai trees, or if he's at Thursday he can study the constellations, or if he's at Twelve he can work on his plan for world domination.

Or his Parcheesi skills. Whatever.

But the first time he stays over at Neal's with a bout of insomnia, he's known Neal for three months, and has decided that three months is certainly a long enough amount of time to know somebody before it should be okay to snoop through their home.

Thoroughly. While they're sleeping.

Mozzie had searched through the medicine cabinet, kitchen drawers, the linen closet, and couch cushions, and had yet to turn up anything incriminating. (Well, incriminating by _his_ definition. The Feds might disagree about the excess of lock picks and the aged sketch that looked suspiciously like a Da Vinci.)

It was frustrating.

_Everyone_ had something to hide, everyone had something that they didn't want people to know. And Mozzie loved finding out those secrets, loved knowing them. They were his insurance. He felt safer having that Ace up his sleeve, even if he never had to use it.

Mozzie liked Neal. He'd only known him for three months, but already he was fond of the boy. Neal was brilliant, and quick, and talented, and _beautiful, _in a way that Mozzie could appreciate, a way that went deeper than a pretty face and a charming smile.

But the problem was that Neal made Mozzie do more than just appreciate him for his skill - he made Mozzie _care_ about him, want to look out for him.

That was dangerous.

The number one rule of life - never put anyone else's welfare before your own. That was the most basic instinct of any creature - to survive, at any cost. Mozzie knew this. He didn't think it fair of anyone to scorn this way of thinking, because it was a primordial impulse. If a bus is careening in your direction and it's you or the guy next to you, the guy next to you is going under the bus, because if you don't throw him, then you're the dumbass humanitarian getting thrown.

That's why Neal was dangerous. Because Mozzie had only known him three months and already he's having a hard time imagining himself sacrificing Neal to save his own skin. Already he's second-guessing whether he could do it.

And sometimes, when Neal's laughing or painting or quoting Walt Disney back at him, sometimes Mozzie wonders if he wouldn't jump in front of the bus for him.

That's why Mozzie needs to find something, _anything_, to make him like the kid a little less. Like proof that he's really Satan, or a KGB assassin, or a Fed or something.

Mozzie searched the back of the freezer and the toilet tank, just to be thorough.

No luck.

Finally, Mozzie decided that whatever secrets Neal was hiding, they must be in his bedroom. He'd check under the bed first, and go from there.

Quietly, he pushed the door open, and kept his fingers crossed that Neal was a heavy sleeper.

It was dark in Neal's room, but the half-open door cast enough light that Mozzie could tiptoe over to the bed without tripping over his own feet. He barely glanced at the curled-up figure on the bed before dropping to his knees and using his penlight to search beneath it.

A few blank canvasses, a toolbox full of half-empty tubes of paint, and a dusty tome of Whitman that had gotten wedged between the headboard and the wall.

Nothing.

Disappointed, Mozzie rose to continue his search, and was brushing his hands off when his elbow hit the curtain and let in enough light for him to see more than a dark, vaguely Neal-shaped lump.

Mozzie froze.

Neal was curled up tight, long legs brought up so that his knees touched his chest, and his arms wrapped around himself. His eyes were squeezed shut, but wet around the edges, and his fists were clenched in a white-knuckled grip. The tendons stuck out vividly in his neck, and his mouth was open wide, and he shook all over.

He looked like he was screaming, but he was deathly silent.

Mozzie shivered and rushed out of the room, and it wasn't until he closed the door behind him that he realized his heart was pounding.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes and wished just this once that he wasn't eidetic. Wished that he could forget this.

If Neal had made some noise, had truly screamed, then Mozzie could pass it off as just a nightmare. Everyone had nightmares.

But he hadn't. Neal hadn't made a sound.

That wasn't natural. There was nothing at all _right_ about that.

That was learned behavior. Miming your pain because voicing it got you hurt worse. Something you were _taught_ to do, through consequence and repetition, until it overrode the basic animal need to give sound to your hurt.

Mozzie felt sick.

He debated going back in to try to wake Neal, wondered if it would help or hurt, or if he'd even be able to, with him so far into his mind.

He decided against it. He'd let Neal keep his secrets.

He sat down next to the door anyways. Just in case.

He wouldn't be sleeping tonight anyways.


	9. Scars

**Scars**

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_A/N: I really like Neal/Sara. I thought I wouldn't but I do. A lot. And I keep wanting more Neal/Sara fic, and I figured I should do my part to contribute, and well, this is what came out. Hope you like it (I think I kinda do) and please review! (No, I am apparently not above begging.)_

Sara doesn't ask about his scars.

Sometimes, when they're lying in bed together, naked and comfortable and just enjoying the warmth of skin against skin, she'll trace them. Ghosting her fingertips over the barely perceptible white line that runs from ribcage to hip, the rough, jagged flesh behind his knee, the dime-sized circle of puckered skin just behind his ear, mostly hidden by his hair, and a half a dozen others, almost too faint to see.

He can tell she wants to ask, knows that look in her eyes, and is all too well aware that Sara is not the type of woman to let something go. She's wonderfully curious and has a tenacity to rival his own, and most of the time he kind of loves those things about her, because it makes her fun and interesting, and one of the worst things someone can be is boring. But even though she wants to ask, even though she gets that little frown on her face every time her fingers run over damaged flesh, she doesn't.

And he can't figure out _why_.

At first, he had thought he'd outlast her, that certainly she'd end up asking about his scars before he asked her why she _wasn't_ asking, but he'd never claimed to be a patient man (and Mozzie would have laughed at him if he had.)

Neal stared at Sara through half-lidded eyes and squirmed a bit as one finger trailed it's way down from just below his arm to the jut of his hipbone.

"Why don't you ask?"

Her eyes shifted up from his torso to lock onto his own. "Hmm?"

"My scars. You wonder, but you don't ask. Why?"

She laid the hand that was still by his hip onto his skin, and slid it all the way back up to his chest, and rested it over his heart. "If you ever want to tell me, Neal, I'd love to listen. But I'm not going to ask and give you a reason to lie to me."

He opened his mouth, and he didn't know if it was to protest or placate, but she stopped him before he could find out.

"It's okay." She smiled, that soft smile she had, that he sometimes thought might be just for him. "Some things need to be given. Pieces of a person, they can't be stolen." Her eyes fell from his to her hand, and she said quietly, "Or they shouldn't be." She smiled at him again, and kissed him with that smile, and then snuggled down beside him and laid her head where her hand had been. "I don't mind waiting."

Neal wrapped himself around her and tried to sleep.

And another time, when she ran her fingers over familiar scars, he quietly told her a story about a boy who was never smart enough, or fast enough, or _good _enough to make the grown-ups happy.

Until one day, he ran away, and learned how to put on a mask, and pretend he was.


End file.
